What the Hell Is Eurovision, and Why Is It Coming to America?

Everything you need to know about the giant, bizarre pan-national singing contest that's airing on American TV for the first time on Saturday.

For more than 60 years, all of Europe has gotten together once a year for a huge singing competition that's part American Idol, part Hunger Games.

The Eurovision Song Contest has some impressive credentials on paper: It's watched by nearly 200 million people each year; is responsible for giving the world acts like ABBA, Céline Dion, and Riverdance; and it's also one of the longest-running TV shows ever. Still, Eurovision remains a relative mystery to many people in the United States, and those who have heard of it only know it for its reputation as a giant, messy, campy spectacle. That's something the organizers of the event are clearly hoping to change this year, however. They've managed to secure a U.S. broadcaster for the first time ever. And they've also convinced Justin Timberlake to come on board as the show's halftime entertainment. Another first.

If you're planning on tuning in and have never seen it before, let me tell you now, it's a lot to process. Like all British people, I still watch Eurovision every year, and even I can agree it's, at best, a very amusing clusterfuck and, at worst, a straight-up television car crash. Here's a simple (admittedly U.K.-centric) guide to get you somewhat prepared for this three-and-a-half-hour cringe-fest.

How did this whole thing start?
Remember how Europe spent the first half of the 20th century ripping itself apart in a seemingly unending cycle of bloodier and bloodier wars? By the 1950s, the general consensus across the continent was that they shouldn't do that anymore, and with the Cold War looming, Europe's political elite set about trying to foster peace and unity with all sorts of idealistic projects and initiatives. The big one was the founding of the European Union. But the same sentiment also gave us the Eurovision Song Contest.

Just how big is it?
Last year's competition reportedly drew 197 million viewers. To put that in context, this year's Super Bowl, which had the third-largest TV audience in U.S. television history, peaked at just 115.5 million. Eat it, football.

Who takes part?
This year there are 43 countries—or, at least, there would be if Romania didn't just get itself expelled. Not every country in Europe competes, but the "Euro" in "Eurovision" is also kind of a red herring. In recent years, it's evolved to mean "Euro-ish." Russia, which is geographically mostly part of Asia, has been entering since 1994. And in 2014, Australia, which is basically on the other side of the planet, also entered for the first time.

That is a lot of countries. Do they all sing in one show?
No, first everyone has to compete in one of two semifinals. That is, unless they're Sweden, France, Germany, Italy, Spain, or the United Kingdom. Sweden doesn't need to go through qualifying this year because it's hosting, but the others—the hallowed "Big Five"—always automatically qualify for the finals no matter what.

That's unfair.
They say it's because they contribute the most money to staging Eurovision, but yes. It's kind of unfair.

How does the competition work?
The finals themselves are pretty straightforward: Each country sings an original three-minute song, and the viewers at home vote for the one they like the most. These votes, along with votes from a professional jury, are then tallied into points, and the country with the most points at the end wins.†

† When I say the voting is pretty straightforward, what I actually mean is it's really fucking complicated, and changes almost every year—this year included. But for simplicity's sake, let's just stick with this explanation.

What do countries win?
The winning act is presented with a glass microphone (see Conchita Wurst, above), but the real prize is mostly bragging rights for them and their home nation. The winning country also gets to host next year's ceremony, if you consider opening your country up to this bloated circus a prize.

How long does the show take?
Forever. It takes fucking forever.

Who is going to win?
God knows. With so many countries taking part, it's almost impossible to predict a winner. Russia, who admittedly take the competition more seriously than most, is the current favorite, but mainly because Eastern Bloc countries have a reputation for voting for each other, so Russia is almost always the favorite.

Whoever the winner is, it won't be San Marino's disco Leonard Cohen, Serhat, who failed to qualify last night. And if you ask, that's a real shame.

Can a country, like, lose?
Officially: no. Unofficially: absolutely. Each country only gets to allocate a certain number of points, and if it decides your song was crap, it awards you the shameful nul points. (French for "no points," because the scoring is in French, for some reason.) If every country gives you nul points—the equivalent of being on the wrong end of a no-hitter—then you become an international laughingstock, and it pretty much guarantees you will never sing in public ever again.

True nul points performances are rare. But to show you just how painful they can be when they do happen, here's the U.K.'s entry from 2003.

Who picks each country's representative?
This is where it gets kind of tricky, and you start to get a sense of the love-hate relationship most countries have with Eurovision. Jemini, the atrocious act above from the U.K., was picked by the British general public in an American Idol–style competition. Their performance (and a few more like it) was considered so dire, however, that regular people were eventually banned from selecting the country's song in 2011. Instead, the U.K. entry was chosen by a shadowy group of music insiders who presumably had been given the task of saving the country's spoiled reputation. (That has since changed again, and the U.K. is once more submitting an entry this year with the help of the great unwashed. Let's see how that goes.)

How come the U.K. doesn't just send Adele?
Because for that you'd need the cooperation of the record companies, and the record companies have absolutely nothing to gain from risking their big-name talent on Eurovision. The outcome is too unpredictable, and even if an established artist like Adele were to win, he or she would still run the risk of being tainted by Eurovision's undeniable tackiness. A lot of countries (like Russia) send their better-known acts, but they're almost always completely unknown to the rest of Europe. The ironic end result is that Eurovision, a competition that's meant to foster cultural exchange, is damned to always be filled with musicians with absolutely no crossover appeal.

Sounds pretty ridiculous.
The whole thing is a farce. Eurovision was founded as a way to foster peace and understanding between European nations, but mostly what it does is breed competition and national grudges. Not only that, the music is mostly terrible and has the staying power of a gnat. In more than 60 years, ABBA's "Waterloo" is probably the only winning song you've ever heard of, but you probably had no idea Eurovision was its source. Similarly, if you were to list Céline Dion's achievements off the top of your head, "1988 Eurovision Champion" would be the last thing you'd think of. But look, here she is.

Nine times out of ten, the song that wins Eurovision is some saccharine junk that nobody will ever listen to again. And when you think about it, of course it is. It's almost impossible to write something that's going to be just as popular in Denmark as it is in France, Iceland, and Azerbaijan. But that's essentially what Eurovision is looking for, and it fails every year.

So what's so great about Eurovision? Why are 200 million people still tuning in?
It's easy to sneer at its gaudiness, but there is an innocence to Eurovision that I've always found kind of endearing. Take IVAN (yes, all caps), Belarus's entry this year. He is reportedly planning on singing naked to a pack of holographic wolves in a performance that sounds like it was inspired by a Steven Seagal wet dream.

Or Finland's Lordi, who surprised everyone by winning the whole competition in 2007, despite looking like a LARP-ing death cult.

Who knew grotesque monsters and inoffensive pop rock was such a genius combination? I defy you to watch this without a smile on your face.

There's also something comforting about the tradition of it. Yes, I hate the pomp of Eurovision. But I'm British, and the British have always had a chilly relationship with the rest of the continent. It's a role they play, and with the U.K. currently teetering on the edge of a European exit, I can't pretend I wouldn't miss it if it ever went away.

I guess that's the ultimate irony of Eurovision. For all the campy outfits and awkward performances, the cheesiest thing about the competition is the fact that it actually makes me feel a kind of begrudging reverence for my European brethren. Ugh.

As a bonus: Here's some more weird yet strangely charming Europop from recent years.

Cezar (2013)
An operatic Romanian with a penchant for capes, acrobats, and dubstep.

Zdob si Zdub (2011)
A group of rapping gnomes from Moldova, and the bastard love child of Limp Bizkit and Cirque du Soleil.

Sun Stroke Project & Olia Tira (2010)
Another one from Moldova. Although it's not the most batshit Eurovision performance of all time, it still deserves a mention for giving us "Epic Sax Guy"" (0:34)—the Internet's second best Internet sax personality after "Sexy Sax Man", of course.